The Fallen Angel of Mercy
by Robin1231
Summary: AU.  During the events at Bastogne, Doc Roe tires of his role as the agent of death.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own Band of Brothers. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the men in Easy Company and the soldiers just like them.**

**Summary: AU. During the events at Bastogne, Doc Roe tires of his role as the agent of death. **

**Rating: T for language, attempted suicide, and violence.**

The trees were exploding. In all of his 28 years, Eugene Roe could quite honestly say he'd never seen a tree explode until those mortar rounds struck the snow-capped pines above the hastily dug foxholes. He could also say he'd never seen snow before Easy Company traveled into Bastogne. He could also say he'd never hated anyone until the Germans opened fire; relentlessly. None of that mattered that much as Doc scrambled out of his designated ditch, responding to the first gut-wrenching cry of:

"MEDIC!"

Roe sprinted full tilt through the trees, barreling past hidden soldiers and flashes of machine guns. He dodged and weaved through screaming bullets, completely unaware of the danger; aware only of the man writhing on the ground in his shell-shocked companion's arms. A near fatal run-in with a stray artillery round blasted Roe off his feet and propelled him backwards until he skidded to a stop against a weather-beaten tree trunk. Lithe as a cat, Eugene flipped himself over onto his knees and scrambled to his feet. Ignoring the warm trickle of blood flowing down his face and under the right shoulder of his fatigues, he sprinted back to the screaming, wounded man. Heffron held him, a panicked coloring smattering his face as he repeated the mantra that Doc Roe heard quite often on the battlefield: "you're okay you're alright you're okay you're alright." He looked up in desperation as the Cajun slid into the slushy mud of the foxhole.

"Thank God Doc," Heffron breathed as if Eugene's inevitable appearance could somehow make everything alright. Even the wounded man seemed to lessen his shrieks in the presence of the good doctor. The men treated Eugene as almost a good luck talisman—as an angel of mercy. He reminded himself bitterly of what he really was—an agent of death.

"Wadda we got?" Eugene's deep lilt was marked by an unnatural calmness uncharacteristic of a soldier who had just sprinted clear across the battlefield.

"I—uh, we—we were j-just watching the line," Heffron sputtered. Doc placed a hand on Eugene's arm. That touch coupled with the doctor's even gaze calmed Babe. "A round came outta nowhere Doc. He got hit. Damn replacements."

"What's his name?"

"I—uh—"

"Never mind, I know it. Matthews. Hey, look at me son," the panicked man locked eyes with Eugene. "You're alright. I got you."

He then got to work. In a flurry of motion, Roe tore away the fabric surrounding Matthews' torso. Bullets continued to fly as he worked. Babe watched in awe as the unfazed medic examined the completely torn away abdomen and exposed intestines. A cry of "INCOMING!" snapped Heffron out of his reverie. Diving backwards into the foxhole, he frantically looked up and out at the doctor.

"DOC! GET IN!"

But Doc Roe did not move from the man who was already so obviously doomed. He threw himself on top of the man, ignoring the blood that smeared across his entire body and shielded his patient.

"DOC!" Heffron screamed; horrified as he watched the impending death of the best medic that Easy Company had. The world exploded in front of Babe's eyes. And then all was quiet. The German artillery had, for the time being, been exhausted but the damage was done. After a brief moment, Babe bolted out of the foxhole, stomach lodged in his shoes. But there he was, face bloodied but whole, frantically trying to save a man who was already dead under his fingertips.

"C'mon. Come ON," Doc intoned deeply. His entire arm was thrust into Matthews' still ribcage up to his elbow, massaging the frozen heart. He started muttering in a mixture of French and English—the same words over and over. A prayer that Babe heard at night coming from the medics' foxhole. The voice was steady and musical, but Doc Roe's eyes betrayed the emotions that many doubted he had. His eyes were wild and mournful. And at that moment, Babe saw behind the calmness and perfection. At that moment, Babe did not see a miracle worker. He saw a man.

-b.o.b-

_You lost eight men today Eugene_. Doc Roe tossed back and forth in his foxhole, brow furrowed as the nightmare escalated. _You fucking failure. It should have been you. They're dead because of you. You let them DIE._

With a strangled yelp, Eugene forced himself awake. Breath catching in his chest, Roe frantically clawed his way out of the foxhole, unwilling to wake Ralph with his momentary panic attack. Shivering in the intense cold, Roe stumbled down the rows of trees, clutching his chest and wheezing. Tears prickled behind his pained eyes, but they would never fall. After all, Doc Eugene Roe could honestly say he'd never cried since he was given that armband that sealed his fate. Images of the dead flew past Eugene's eyes relentlessly. Doc Roe could remember every single soldier who had died underneath his hands. He fell to his knees and ripped his helmet from his hair, relishing the pain that motion elicited from his un-bandaged wounds. He was no doctor. _You're not even good enough to be a goddamn army medic._ The bitter voice in his head taunted yet again. He vaguely noticed that the voice inside his mind was his own. His hysterics gradually increased to the point where he was drawing in no breath at all. Frantically, shaking, Eugene pulled a pistol he'd acquired on his last supply run from his left boot. He resolutely pressed it against his temple and forced the calm mask back upon his face. He squeezed the trigger. A sudden, unexpected impact threw him into the fresh snow, quashing the breath from his lungs.

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	2. Chapter 2

**I don't own Band of Brothers. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the men in Easy Company and the soldiers just like them.**

**Summary: AU. During the events at Bastogne, Doc Roe tires of his role as the agent of death. **

**Rating: T for language, attempted suicide, and violence.**

"What the fucking hell are you doing Doc?" Eugene remained where he was, face pressed into the painfully cold snow as the voice continued its barrage, as relentless as the German firearms. "What the FUCK are you DOING? LOOK AT ME!" Rough hands yanked him literally off of his feet and into the air. Eugene's eyes remained disconcertingly blank and dead as he was slammed painfully against a tree. "I SAID LOOK AT ME DAMMIT!" Doc's eyes slid slowly from the pistol on the ground to the angry brown eyes of Babe Heffron and said nothing. The two remained that way—one furious, the other expressionless—until Doc was rescued by the guiltily welcome cry of:

"INCOMING!"

Babe remained gripping Doc's lapels, eyes darting, obviously conflicted. Then with a hoarse cry of frustration, he threw Eugene into a nearby foxhole, pocketed the offending pistol and went thundering into the fray. At that moment, in that bitterly cold and empty foxhole, Eugene Roe had never felt quite so alone.

-b.o.b-

Meeting Renee was both a blessing and a curse. The woman offered Eugene refuge from the harsh words and persistent gunfire. She filled his life with grace and compassion that war had stolen from him. Renee was his godsend. She was different. She was constant. While dying men slipped away under his fingertips, she remained; as beautiful as the sculptures that adorned the church where she worked tirelessly. She also brought discontent. She reminded Eugene what could have, should have, and would have happened. She reminded him of what war did to the pure. Looking at her beautiful, beautiful hands stained by carnage and her own benevolence rattled him—angered him. But he _felt_ something. He _felt_ something for the first time since he'd traveled into that frozen wasteland. Renee gave that back to him.

That day, Julian died in front of Babe. Three feet away and no one could save him. When Eugene glanced over the pot of stinking beans at Heffron, he recognized the pain deep inside. He felt it just the same. He spent that night holding Heffron as he bawled his eyes out. He spent that night consoling, understanding and loving. The pangs of irrational jealousy hammered in his chest, as constant as his heartbeat, as he watched Babe allow himself that moment of weakness. But he would never voice his own pain or his own emotions. No, medics were the angels of the battlefield—no weakness, no fear. His men needed him. Babe, no, Edward needed him.

Losing that nameless, faceless soldier underneath his hands broke something within Doc. He was with Renee! Everything should have gone right! Nevertheless, the man died and his face was added into the ever-growing filing cabinet of failures in Eugene's mind. When Smokey was paralyzed, that ice cold feeling of helplessness returned again, stealing away any emotions he possessed. If it weren't for Babe's watchful eye he would have starved. And then beautiful Renee died. Perishing with the men that she fought to protect and nurse back to health. But things began to make sense in a twisted way. Nothing pure could ever live in that state of war.

-b.o.b-

Babe and Eugene sat in companionable silence in the foxhole overlooking no-man's-land; Eugene bandaging Babe's hand, Babe daring any Kraut to step foot over the line. Babe couldn't help but glance at the intense man crouched at his side. His face was tight and drawn and closed—that of a killer. His hands however were soft and gentle—angel's hands.

"So, uh, Doc…we ever gonna talk about what happened out there?" No response. "You know…the thing with the pistol?" Eugene's face remained unchanged. His eyes, however, closed off further. "Cause, you know, we can wait a while if you—"

"Watch the damn line Heffron."

"So much for Babe," Babe muttered bitterly, sulkily shifting his gaze back to the line. His resolve crumbled as the gentle fingers continued to caress his sliced palm. "Doc, what's the matter with you? You don't talk, you hardly eat. All you do is give, give, give." The only response that came from the smaller man was a nearly imperceptible stiffening of the shoulders. "Hey Doc. Doc, just listen."

Babe grabbed Eugene's right shoulder and pressed into it. A strangled cry of pain was torn, unwittingly, from the Cajun's lips and Babe jerked back, stunned. Doc drew his knees up to his chest and his hand up to the offending shoulder. An ugly grimace of pain painted across his handsome features.

"Doc," Babe said, voice shaking. "What happened to your shoulder?" The man either refused to speak or the pain prevented him from speaking—either way, no sound came. Babe gently unfolded Doc. He pressed the pain ridden body into his own as he drew away Doc's hand from his wound. Peeling back the layers of clothing, Babe noticed that each layer grew progressively darker—saturated with blood. Finally, he pulled back the last flimsy t-shirt. The shrapnel wound had been hastily cleaned out and shoddily bandaged. Dark blood oozed out of the old wound. The skin around the jagged hole was deeply bruised and slightly yellowed. "Jesus Doc," Babe whispered shakily. "What the hell happened? Who bandaged you?"

"I did," Doc managed through clenched teeth. Babe snorted. Surely the man who did such a brilliant job patching everyone up couldn't be responsible for this.

"Then why the hell didn't you use a real bandage?" Babe retorted, waving around the blood-soaked piece of cloth.

"Not enough supplies."

"You didn't even use a bandage? Not even a syrette?" Eugene shook his head, pain slowly receding.

"Not enough. Now watch the goddamn line Babe. And quit your worrying." Babe flung his arms up in the air.

"I'll quit my worrying when you're not trying to KILL yourself!" And then all hell broke loose. Gunfire rattled through the air and mortar rounds crashed back into the trees. A familiar sight, really, but that didn't stop Eugene from jumping. The two huddled in that ditch, covering each other's heads. Doc buttoned his fatigues and grimly rose at the cry for "MEDIC!" He left Babe in the hole, manning the machine gun.

Dashing through the exploding trees, Doc followed the sound of the strangled cry. Ducking under showers of earth and bark, leaping over fallen trees, Doc neared the wounded man. But it was too late. The screaming had stopped just as his heart had. Cursing, Roe turned on his heel and started back to Babe. He never got that far.

The tangible danger of being an army medic is that the job entails giving up a rifle entirely for the sake of an emergency kit. It entailed sprinting through the battlefield selflessly, fearlessly. That was the true reason behind his appointment into the medic role. Even an inept leader as Sobel could see the bravery behind the black-blue eyes. Doc Roe never fired his weapon once. It remained on the strap across his back as German rounds peppered through his chest and abdomen. He fell to the snow, gasping for breath. He knew no one would find him. He was alone yet again.

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	3. Chapter 3

**I don't own Band of Brothers. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the men in Easy Company and the soldiers just like them.**

**Summary: AU. During the events at Bastogne, Doc Roe tires of his role as the agent of death. **

**Rating: T for language, attempted suicide, and violence.**

The barrage ended almost as soon as it began. Babe glanced over the snowy field. Cautious helmets rose slowly, tense in their movements. Shaken. Gripping the edge of the hole, Babe swung up and out. He took off his helmet. Something felt…off. Something felt wrong. He began examining each foxhole and each man. He noticed a lot more bloody faces and fingers than usual. Ralph Spina appeared suddenly from behind a fallen tree, frazzled. Babe caught his elbow as he brushed past.

"Hey Ralph, where's Doc?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know, huh? Probably clear across the frickin' field as usual. Now can I please do my job? Sheesh."

"Alright, alright," Babe said, hands raised, placating the rushed medic. He let the man go and walked further. He dropped into the next foxhole he saw. "Hey Perconte, have you seen Doc?"

"No. But if you see dat asshole, tell him to get his ass over here. I got a piece of friggin tree in my leg," Perconte griped, showing Babe his slightly bloodied leg.

"Alright. Damn. Spina's that way if it hurts too much," He swung back out of the foxhole and continued on his way, a sinking feeling of dread lodging itself in his stomach. He trudged along farther, hands underneath his armpits, seeking any warmth he could find. He looked right, left. He saw men cleaning their guns, men laughing with their partners, trying to ease the tension. He saw somber men crouched next to dead men. But he didn't see a serious medic with blue-black eyes.

"Heffron." Babe swung around.

"Captain Winters, sir."

"Have you seen Doc Roe anywhere? I need to talk to him." Babe gulped nervously.

"I haven't seen him sir. That's who I'm looking for." Captain Winters' face dropped slightly and twisted into a mask of concern. He'd been friends with Doc in Toccoa. He'd been with him when Sobel gave him the news that he'd be a medic. He'd told Doc that he trusted no one more with his men. He tightened his face.

"Find him soldier. Then bring him back to me."

"Yes sir." Babe then turned away from his NCO and walked briskly into the forest of splintered tree trunks.

-b.o.b-

Eugene coughed slightly, blood trickling out the corner. Not streaming yet. He knew the bullets hit no organs and no major arteries. But Goddammit, they hurt. He looked up into the stormy sky and watched the snow fall onto his face, beautifully. They say when you're dying, your body grows cold and frozen. That wasn't really true. Eugene felt pleasantly warm. As if he were sitting outside on the bayou, letting the sun sink into his skin.

"Lord…" He began, shakily. "G-grant that…I sh-sh-shall n-never seek to be c-consoled…as to console…" He coughed wetly, blood bubbling on his lips. "T-to be understood as to-to understand…" Tears filled his eyes. He pushed them away. He would not cry. He'd gotten so far. "And to…be loved…as to love with all my heart," He finished strongly. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. "With all my heart."

-b.o.b-

Babe walked through the silent forest, fear creeping up on the young man. It was so empty. So cold. Babe shivered as a breeze whipped through his red hair. Snow crunched under his boots as he continued on towards the more heavily hammered segment of the line. But still, there was no Doc. Tears of frustration prickled behind his eyelids as he sank to the ground at the base of a shattered tree. The tears began streaming down his face. He was all alone. And then, a whisper came on the wind.

"_With all my heart…With all my heart…With all my heart."_

The voice went on and on, repeating the same line. It sounded so familiar, Babe thought to himself, perking up a bit, turning his head towards the sound. A shockwave went through his body as he made the connection. _Doc!_ Throwing himself to his feet, Babe whirled around in the snow, frantically searching for the source of the whisper. He dashed through a pile of branches and then froze. The snow was stained crimson. His heart lurched as he saw a motionless pile of green fatigues. Tears still streaming down his face, he approached the fallen man slowly. Kneeling down, Babe took off his gloves. Placing two shaking fingers to the exposed neck, he felt for a pulse. There was none.

With a sharp cry, Babe rolled the body over, searching for a sign of life in blue-black eyes—and then he drew back in shock. That wasn't Doc. And then the whispering began again, just a few feet away. Clambering over a mound of snow, Babe almost dived into Doc's lap. The medic was outstretched—not curled into himself like many wounded did to relieve the pain—and staring up into the falling flakes of snow. And then Babe noticed the blood. He knelt by the Cajun's head and took the man's hand. Eugene opened his eyes and smiled. He _smiled_.

"Hey Babe," He said, deep voice drawing out the name, his accent thick with pain. Babe stared horrified at the man.

"Jesus Doc…"

"It ain't as bad as it looks." His voice suddenly went devoid of any pain, just comfort. "It's alright Babe. Quit your cryin'. I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Goddammit!" Babe's voice cracked. "Quit tryin' to be some goddamn superhero Doc! Now let me see—"

"Don't touch Babe," Eugene said, shrinking away from the hands. "It hurts too damn much alright?" He moved to get up. "I can fix it—" He fell back with a cry as his wounds flared. His body quivered as the pain rode through uncontested. Babe looked on helplessly.

"So this is how you feel," Babe whispered, placing his hand on the Cajun's brow. "It'll be alright buddy. I got you. Just tell me what to do." Doc gripped his sleeve tightly.

"Sulfa…in my pocket." Babe grabbed for the packet. He gingerly unbuttoned the heavy jacket for the second time that day. Three bullet wounds littered the man's body. One in his chest, the others through his stomach. "The one in my…chest…is still there…" Babe blanched as he comprehended what needed to be done. "Use this," With a shaking hand, Eugene dragged a sharp knife out of his pocket. His bloodied hand pressed the blade into Babe's hand. Babe's brown eyes darted in desperation. "Babe, you don't have to. I'll be fine."

"No…there's no one else…and of course your stupid ass got you too damn far for anyone to hear us. Just—just hold still…" Gripping the knife by the handle, Babe grimly pressed the tip of the knife into the broken skin. He tried to ignore the clenched teeth and the heavy breathing as he pried the little metal ball out of the hard bone of Doc's sternum. His eyes darted briefly to meet Doc's. Noticing the stare, Eugene pushed back his pain and gave the man a weak but encouraging grin. He nodded at Babe and then closed his eyes back again. Finally, the bullet was unlodged. Babe tore open the packet of sulfa on the wound and then grabbed a bandage from Doc's pack. He repeated the motion on the two minor wounds, front and back. Doc's deep but seldom heard laugh rang out.

"What?" Babe huffed, tiredly.

"You'd make a great medic. Better than me."

"No I wouldn't."

"Yes. You saved me."

"You've saved more." Doc's face fell and for that moment, Babe saw again the glimpse of the man behind the calm.

"I've lost more than I've saved," Both men fell silent then. Babe stood and hauled Doc to his feet, supporting the injured man.

"Let's get you back. Captain Winters is gonna kill me."

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	4. Chapter 4

**I don't own Band of Brothers. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the men in Easy Company and the soldiers just like them.**

**Summary: AU. During the events at Bastogne, Doc Roe tires of his role as the agent of death. **

**Rating: T for language, attempted suicide, and violence.**

Doc Roe rummaged around his cot, gathering his supplies and extra socks for the men. The stiff bandages across his torso barely hindered his motion—the pain dulled by the morphine the surgeon shot into his arm despite all his protests. He folded the warm, grey blanket neatly and placed it upon the pillow at the head of the cot and, shouldering his pack, walked silently out of the medical post. His boots crunched on the freshly fallen snow as he walked through the darkened town. His mind drifted to his men—as it often had in the past 36 hours since Babe had hauled his ass back to base. Were they safe? Injured? Who was now dead? Someone had to be. His eyes clenched shut, face drawn in pain as he allowed himself to remember those faces. He sat down on a pile of wooden rubble and just…breathed. Just breathed and remembered. Faces, some smiling and some twisted in grimaces of pain and pleading rushed past and Doc felt himself shake. Shake with guilt and self-abhorrence. How long until he failed again? Who would be his next great failure? Perconte? Liebgott? Babe? Eugene bitterly corrected himself—Heffron, not Babe. Not anymore. He'd put Heffron in enough danger. They'd grown to be friends. Friends die for each other.

"Where are you going Doc?" A soft, even voice startled Eugene. He bolted off the pile of rubble and whirled around, almost tripping over his worn boots. "It's 0100 hours Eugene. Surely you're not going AWOL." Captain Winters' eyes danced brightly as Doc brushed imaginary snow off his front. The Cajun guiltily looked up at his superior officer.

"I'm going back to the front. Sir," the smaller man finished weakly.

"You got shot three times Eugene," Dick said softly to the stiffened man. "You should be in the hospital."

"I've _been_ at the hospital," Eugene said with a sudden, venomous bite of anger. "My place is out there. Sir. With the men. Not here. What good is a medic here?"

"What good is a dead medic?"

"I'm not dead yet."

"You almost were," Winters' voice hardened and he seemed to double in height. "What were you thinking, Eugene? It's one thing to be brave, another entirely to be suicidal. You left the line. You left _my_ line of sight. I keep an eye on every single person in this goddamn company," he spat bitterly, cursing rarely. "Especially you. Imagine my surprise when suddenly my goddamn medic wasn't there," Eugene seemed to fold into himself and Winters almost considered relenting. "You're not expendable Gene. We need you! Spina can't measure up to you by half. He tries, but he's not that good. The men trust you when you're around. They do their goddamn jobs because they trust you to do yours! You give them hope." Silence. Roe's eyes rose to meet Winters'. Dick could have sworn he saw tears.

"Have you ever held a man's heart in your hand Sir?" Doc's accented voice was quiet, but strong.

"What?"

"I said, have you ever held a man's heart in your hand? Sir. Have you looked a 19 year old kid in the eye and told him he'd be okay while you're holding his guts inside his stomach? Sir." Doc's voice rose in suppressed anger and pain. "Have you stayed awake at night, watching the dead fly past you, still begging—_begging—_for you to save them? Have you closed yourself off from _everyone_ cause you know you'd fail to save their life if they were a friend? You don't know what it's like. Sir. To watch everyone around you die as heroes while you get off scott free. To be helpless. You don't know what it's like. Sir. To hope to _God_ that just one bullet will reach the target. Just one will fucking bury itself so deep inside your fucking skull that it kills you instantly. You don't know what it's like to then wish you got shot in a place where you bleed out slowly so you get what's coming to you. Pain. I want pain. Cause then that would mean I had done something worthwhile. You say I give them hope." A complete look of disgust and derision smeared itself across Doc's face. "Hope is worth nothing out here. Worth nothing but a bullet to the brain. Because hope just means that you'll die harder. Cause the men will try to hold on so I can save them. And will I save them? No. I'm no goddamn angel. Sir. I have no hope myself. I'll fail as I always do. And there's nothing that can be done." Winters stood shocked as Doc brushed past him angrily. He watched helplessly as the small, intense man with blue-black eyes hopped into a waiting jeep and sped off back to the line that his men held resolutely. He watched and he hoped. Hoped that Eugene Roe would survive.

**Review?**

**I know this is really short and I haven't updated in forever…sorry bout that. But thanks for all the lovely reviews! And thanks for putting up with all my…unfortunate writing skills and angsty dribble! Either one or two more chapters left!**


	5. Chapter 5

**I don't own Band of Brothers. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the men in Easy Company and the soldiers just like them.**

**Summary: AU. During the events at Bastogne, Doc Roe tires of his role as the agent of death. **

**Rating: T for language, attempted suicide, and violence.**

Eugene stalked through the trees, stomping hard upon the packed snow through the empty wasteland. He'd left the jeep an hour ago; his restlessness proving to be too much to sit still. Still at least 3 miles from the line, Doc marched briskly. _High-ho silver_, he thought bitterly as he picked up his pace a bit. Thankful for the momentary solitude, Doc Roe allowed himself to drift further into his own thoughts. His heartbeat began thundered loudly in his ears; his blue-black eyes narrowed slightly. His confession to Captain Winters reverberated in his mind, his words clamoring inside his brain. He'd shown emotion. Disrespect. Worse, he'd shown weakness. "_You must always be strong, Eugene,"_ his mother had said in a letter he'd received days after earning the red-cross armband. _"Be the guardian angel of those men. Protect them." _Two months later, a tearstained letter from his aunt came to Camp Toccoa, bearing news of his parents' deaths in a fiery car collision. She too died a week after, unable to withstand the grief of the loss of her beloved sister. Everyone was gone, but Eugene remained. He remained to shoulder the pain and suffering of those around. He remained to be strong and he failed. He failed.

The guilt slowly built into a knot that expanded, choking him. His feet moved faster and faster through the blanketed forest until he was nearly running. _Failure. You stupid fucking failure._ His mind raced and blinded Eugene with rage. Rage at the Krauts. Rage at Sink. Rage at Winters. Rage at Babe. Rage at _Heffron_. HEFFRON YOU STUPID FUCKING IDIOT.Rage at himself. He began to sprint blindly through the trees. Rage at himself. _Run faster._ He ran faster. Rage at KrautSinkWinters. The white expanse dotted with green trees blurred together, mixing into the ugliest shade of grey Eugene had ever seen. _Keep running. _Rage at Babe_Heffron_HEFFRON. _That's all you're good for so RUN. _Roe threw his head back and yelled, his pain and anguish exuding from every syllable. Blind fury coursed through his body as he barreled through the trees. His mad dash was brought to a jarring halt as his boot caught on a hidden root. He fell to his knees. _GET UP! USELESS! _He threw himself to his feet and rounded on the offending tree. With sickening thuds and cracks, Eugene pummeled the tree with his bare fists. Medics can't wear gloves now can they? Blood smeared across the trunk from Roe's knuckles, now bloodied and raw; but he didn't stop. Left right left right left right over and over again. He then violently tore the rifle off the strap across his back and let loose a barrage of bullets towards his enemy, yelling coarsely all the while. _THAT'S ENOUGH! NOW RUN!_

He ran.

RUN!

-b.o.b-

Cigarette loosely clamped between his lips, Babe sat slumped against the muddy, frozen wall of the foxhole. In his right hand he held his bayonet. In his left, he held a chunk of splintered wood—a senseless piece of bark torn away by the bombs and artillery rounds. Calmly, intensely, he dragged the blade across the wood, stripping it away in layers; piece by piece. Whittling calmed him. It distracted him from the painful silence and solitude that now inhabited his shoddy foxhole. At times, he found himself craving conversation—craving attention as if he were that same little Jersey boy, begging Momma to read him a bedtime story on cold winter nights. Exhaling a cloud of white smoke through his cracked and chapped lips, Babe continued to saw gently away at the wooden block, determined to see what beauty lived beneath the solid exterior. He cut against the grain smoothly, with such finesse that anyone watching would assume that he'd done this all his life. In truth, he'd only picked up whittling after Julian died.

Though his hands grew bitterly cold without his thick, foul-weather gloves, Babe continued picking away at the bark, finally reaching the soft, supple fibers. He breathed out heavily and held the misshapen wood in front of him with a critical eye as if searching for the figure that lay hidden inside. Closing his eyes, Babe brought the knife to the wood and began again. His mind drifted beyond the blade in his hand, the cold against his back. It drifted beyond the line, beyond the bullets in his rifle, even beyond the men lying in ditches nearby. It drifted to Julian. It drifted to those dead and buried, to those white crosses hammered into the ground. Though fighting they left the world, heaven welcomed them with arms wide open. Up through the sky—filled with sun and clouds, not parachute canopies and flak. Into overwhelming white and music instead of camouflage and rifle reports. Finally, up to a gate made of silver and sunshine, almost blinding to look at but too beautiful to look away. Pillars of glass and souls and finality bordered each side and when you looked at them, you knew paradise was on the other side. Standing in front of the celestial gate was an angel. An angel with blue-black eyes.

A white hot pain tore across Babe's palm, startling Babe out of his reverie. He opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. The knife had slipped and tore his skin through the blue bandage that Doc had tied gently across his rough palm. Blood welled up and sluggishly seeped through the cloth and smeared onto the object he held tightly in his closed hand. Wincing, he unclenched his fingers and glanced down at the figurine. It was an angel.

-b.o.b-

Roe gave up running back to the line after he crashed into a covered foxhole inhabited only by two frozen American bodies. Instead, he lightly treaded through the snow, more at peace with himself than he had been in a while. The faces stopped flashing and his own embittered conscience had quieted a while back. He whistled an old tune his grandmother had sang to him when he was a boy. A deep whistle that matched the deep lilting timbre of his voice. Soft flakes of snow began to drift from the sky, clinging to his uncovered hair. In that moment, the world was white and pure and clean. Not red and black. In that moment after the terror and panic, Gene Roe was at peace. He wasn't Doc. Hell, he wasn't even Eugene just then. He was Gene who loved climbing trees in the summer to listen to the whisper of the wind as it rustled through the leaves. He was Gene who would lose himself in a book, hidden deep within the tangles of the bayou. He was Gene who could disappear from sight at any given moment, leaving nothing but a laugh behind. And he was Gene who was the strongest shoulder to cry on, who understood perfectly, and who loved unconditionally. And at that moment, he was at peace.

` Eventually, Eugene's booted, tireless feet brought him into the smattering of foxholes and into the deep and harsh voices of battle-hardened men. Treading softly, he slipped into the line for a can of beans and was completely unnoticed. Grateful for that, he kept his head down as Joe spooned the rancid concoction into his tin cup. He then turned and sat behind the circle of men, grateful for company and grateful for the voices. He listened as the men talked about everything and nothing at all, all at once. He choked down the bean stew, laughed in his silent way at Luz's strained jokes, and still held back—why, he didn't know. He then rose, still unnoticed, and gracefully padded away into a nearby foxhole—vacant, he knew, by the amount of snow accumulated at the bottom. Dragging his shovel out of his medic's bag, he dug through the snow until he reached the relatively welcome mud floor. He placed his helmet on top of his head and lay on his left side. Dragging a thin sheet over his tired, cold body, he drifted off to sleep, unaware of anything but the food in his stomach and the calmness if his mind. Two hours later, voices woke him, but he couldn't bring himself to get up.

" 'Ey Babe! What the hell are ya mopin' about for?" That was Perconte.

"I'm not moping." Babe.

"He sure as hell looks down, doesn't he?"

"Yep," came a slightly bored voice. Luz. "What the hell's the big deal Perco? He's down in the dumps. We live in fucking ditched. You got somethin' to throw a party for?"

"No. Jesus, what the hell's the matter with you? I was just askin' a question. Wasn't I just askin' a question Babe?" A muffled _whatever_ sounded from above Roe's helmet and he heard footsteps crunching away. A second later, a muffled _SMACK _sounded and he knew Luz just punched Perconte's shoulder.

"OW! Jesus, what the hell was that for?"

" Shut your fucking mouth Perco. You know he was the one to find Doc."

"Huh?" An exasperated sigh came from Luz's lips.

"When Doc got shot, Babe found him and carried him all the way back. He had to dig out a fucking bullet from Doc's chest, alright? Jeez. How would you like to pull a bullet outta your friend's chest, huh?"

"Alright! Damn." Silence. A boot scuffed the snow outside of the foxhole. "Sure as hell hope Doc's alright." Perconte's voice was softened, more than Eugene had ever heard. "He's a damn good medic."

"A damn good man," came Luz's voice. "Brave as hell too."

"Yeah!" Perconte exclaimed. "One time, this kid nexta me took a huge chunk of shrapnel to the gut. We were clear across the fucking line and Doc ran straight through all the bullets. They didn't even touch him. It was fucking amazing, I'll tell ya that. Anyways, this guy is lying here screaming right? Doc books it all the way out to us, 'cause the other medic two foxholes over is too scared to leave his own fucking hole. And this guy is screaming and screaming and I'm trying to calm his ass down, but he keeps cryin' "I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die" and I don't know what to do, ya know? And then Doc dives into the ditch like a guy from a fucking comic book. A hero, you know, and touches this kid on the forehead. All he says is "you're gonna be fine" or somethin' like that and then the guy stops screaming, just like that."

"Just like that, huh?" Luz's voice held a tinge of awe. "Did the kid die?"

"That's the kicker. He didn't. Doc saved his fucking life and he went back home with a piece of fucking shrapnel as a fucking souvenir." Luz whistled low. Silence. Then: "You gotta wonder though. Do ya think anybody ever says "thank you" to the Doc?"

"Waddya mean?"

"Well, I mean this guy fucking saves people's lives, right?"

"Right."

"Well, do you think anybody ever says "thank you"? Like after he saves their life?" Silence.

"You know, I don't think so."

"Well, I'll tell ya one thing. Next time that motherfucker saves my sorry ass, imma thank him till his fucking ears bleed, I'll tell ya that." The voices faded away as they walked off still reminiscing about Eugene as he sat against the wall, pensive. He sat back and thought and eventually drifted off to sleep.

**Review? Sorry it took so long. This was kinda a pivotal chapter so I wanted to make it good. And a smidge longer. Thanks for all the reviews! **


	6. Chapter 6

**I don't own Band of Brothers. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the men in Easy Company and the soldiers just like them.**

**Summary: AU. During the events at Bastogne, Doc Roe tires of his role as the agent of death. **

**Rating: T for language, attempted suicide, and violence.**

The dull THUD of a body jumping into his foxhole startled Eugene, effectively waking him up and scaring him half to death. The man was crouched on the other side of the hole, balancing a machine gun on the edge of the dirt. Once he had angled it just so, he rocked back on his heels and sighed.

"You don't gotta pretend you're asleep kid. I know you're up," Babe's voice was strangely strained and tired. He sounded battle hardened and nothing like the scared little kid Bill Guarnere challenged that day in the bar. "Just shipped out, huh?" Eugene was frozen. Too shocked to answer. "Where you from?" He still didn't turn around. Eugene begged him to in his mind. "I'm from Jersey. Name's Heffron. Babe. Yours?"

"Gene," Eugene choked out softly, too softly and too vulnerable for Babe to recognize the voice.

"No kidding. My best buddy's name's Eugene. Eugene Roe. You might wanna get to know 'im kid. Best goddamn medic we got out here. Damn. Probably the best goddamn medic in this entire fucking war." Eugene grimaced and looked down into the dirt.

"And where is he now?" Eugene's voice was still soft, toneless, a tad bitter, and held none of the deep confidence or calmness that Babe had grown accustomed to. Still, the red-headed man didn't turn.

"He got shot," Babe said shortly before hurrying on, "but he'll be back. Sonuvabitch never knows when to fuckin' quit." Bitterness tinged Heffron's voice. He sighed and uncharacteristically slammed his fist down hard upon the snowy bank with a sudden venom. "Do me a favor kid. You get shot or blown to hell or whatever the fuck else and you know there ain't no chance, don't try callin' for 'im. Cause he'll come. Goddamn idiot will come and he'll fucking get himself killed. Tryin' to be a goddamn hero. Don't call for him kid. Cause he's all I got here. He keeps us fucking alive out here so if you or any of your goddamn buddies gets Doc killed, I'll make you wish you were never born, I swear to God." His shoulders visibly stiffened and he slammed his helmet on the ground beside his gun. "If there even is a fucking God." Silence. He sighed. "Don't call for him kid." If Eugene didn't know better, he'd say Babe's voice cracked. "Cause he'll try to save you and he's all I've got." Eugene's eyes filled with unwelcome tears.

"Isn't that his job?" He whispered. Babe irritably blew a puff of smoke out of his mouth.

"What?"

"Isn't that a medic's job? To save people?" He spoke louder, accent finally creeping into his voice, so slowly Babe didn't notice. "Isn't that what a medic is supposed to do Babe?" Babe stiffened and the cigarette dropped from his fingers as Eugene's Louisianan drawl punctuated his nickname. He spun around and caught Eugene's blue-black eyes with his own frantically. He reached out and grabbed the sleeve of Roe's jacked in desperation, winding the fabric between his fingers, proving to himself that Eugene was real.

"Doc," Babe said, shocked. "You're supposed to be in the hospital." Eugene chuckled.

"Fuck the hospital." A small smirk lifted the corner of Babe's mouth.

"You goddamn idiot," Babe laughed. The tension lifted and Babe unwound his fingers and firmly shook Eugene's slim, outstretched hand. Their eyes locked and held each other's gaze in silence. Then Babe curled his fingers into a fist and socked Doc firmly in the shoulder/

" 'Ey! The hell was that for?" Eugene whined, grasping the offending appendage.

"For being an idiot," Babe said smugly, leaning back against the muddy wall, tipping his helmet over his eyes with a cocky smirk. Eugene groaned.

"Yeah yeah yeah." Roe leaned back, almost mirroring Babe's posture with the exception of the helmet that lay at Doc's feet.

"You sure as hell walk slow. Beat you back by two hours." Captain Winters stood over their heads, all-knowing eyes smirking.

"You knew I was here sir?"

"Eugene I thought you of all people would realize this by now. I thought you had some brains." A brief pause. Babe and Eugene looked at one another, puzzled. Still the blue-green eyes sparkled. "I know everything." And he walked away, shoulders mutely shaking in his traditional silent laughter, without another word. The two men left in the ditch looked at each other for a moment, stunned at their captain's uncharacteristic, infrequent jab of humor, and then burst out into laughter—Babe's deep laughter meshing effortlessly with Eugene's quiet chuckle. Gradually the laughter increased and grew into a roar. Babe slapped his thighs while Eugene grabbed at his aching ribcage, sore from laughing. Tears streamed down both faces as Eugene clapped Babe on the shoulder. Eventually, Lipton had to crouch down beside their hole and, in quiet niceties as only the First Sergeant could, told them to shut the fuck up. The two men shooed Lipton away with promises interjected with uncontrollable spasms of laughter. They then slid to the bottom of the muddy slope, Babe leaning on Eugene's shoulder in comfortable silence. He leaned his had back, content, into the space between Eugene's shoulder and neck. Babe closed his eyes. Silence.

"Hey Babe?" Babe reluctantly cracked open an eye. "I'm sorry." The red-headed man raised an eyebrow and sat up. He looked at the small medic and waited patiently for the man to continue. "I—uh. I'm sorry for the uh—the gun thing. You know." The eyebrow raised higher, almost disappearing into the flattened red strands of hair, peeking out of his helmet.

"The gun THING Gene? Really? That's what you call it? You tried to kill yourself." Silence.

"You know," Eugene began quietly, blue-black eyes gazing at his wind-blistered fingertips. "only my friends call me Gene." The phantom eyebrow stopped its ascent and dropped back into place. Eugene fidgeted nervously, afraid he'd said the wrong thing. Babe was nodding slowly and frowning, gazing at his boots. He then lifted his head and stared intently at the mysterious Cajun.

"Well then, it's good I'm your friend."

"Yep," said Eugene, as if that settled the matter. "It's good."

-b.o.b-

Eugene rocked back on his heels, his hands and arms soaked in blood. His fingers lightly trembled as he reached for a patch of snow to rub off the sticky, red liquid. His eyes were frozen, locked onto the ground. He crouched down, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet and blew lightly out through his tight lips. Holding the painfully cold lump of snow between his numb and raw fingertips, he roughly rocked back so he sat upon the hard packed earth with a thump. His eyes remained locked on the same spot. The same fucking spot stained with blood and black chips of burned bone and—and…goddammit. He swore angrily and chucked the frozen chunk of ice away halfheartedly with a dejected flick of the wrist. He drew his knees up halfway and rested his forearms across his shins. He sat there, uncomfortably and comfortably for a while until the slightly melting snow seeped through his getting-thin pants and his almost-threadbare jacket. He painfully dragged himself to his feet, wincing as his frozen joints groaned in protest. He stood tall, brushing the snow off his ass with one hand and shouldering his medic's bag with the other. His eyes still didn't wander and the sight that barraged him left him paralyzed, etching itself into his brain. Eugene drew a tired hand across his ill-shaven face and exhaled deeply. A hand clapped him across his shoulder. It should have frightened him. But then again, nothing frightened him anymore. Babe followed Doc's line of sight and closed his eyes, grimacing in some invisible pain.

"Let's go Gene," he said softly.

"Yep," said Eugene shortly and didn't move.

"It's not your fault you know."

"I know." Babe looked sharply at Eugene.

"Then why—?"

"Cause knowing that I couldn't stop it—any of it—doesn't make it any easier watching my friends die Babe. It doesn't make it any easier knowing that a bomb could fall right now and take off your head and none of it would be my fault. It makes it worse. Don't you get it? I'm helpless out here. I can't shoot a damn rifle even if I wanted to. I don't have enough supplies. I can't save everyone. Hell," Eugene pinched the bridge of his nose between his red, calloused fingers. "I can't save _anyone_."

"Gene," Babe said softly. "You're just a man." He reached out and placed something in Eugene's hands. "And you've saved me. You gave me hope." Eugene opened his closed fist. A wooden angel rested in his palm. He glanced up at his friend and nodded soundlessly. Babe smirked and slung his arm across Eugene's shoulders and guided him through camp, making sure to skirt around Joe Toye's dismembered and sickeningly familiar leg. They both stopped silently and Eugene looked at Babe. He turned and faced the spot again and dragged a fallen branch across the gruesome leg, covering up the horror, face rigid in a mixture of despair and deep respect.

**Review? Sorry for the LAAAAAATE update. Major writer's block. Not 100% happy with this chapter. MAJOR OOCness. Anyways I rewatched the series and I realized that Babe's from Philly and not Jersey….my bad. There may be one more chapter but I'm not sure. Let me know what you think!**


	7. Chapter 7

**I don't own Band of Brothers. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the men in Easy Company and the soldiers just like them.**

**Summary: AU **(a lot in this chapter)**. During the events at Bastogne, Doc Roe tires of his role as the agent of death. **

**Rating: T for language, attempted suicide, and violence.**

Babe sank down onto the hard, wooden bench beside Gene. Years of worry and pain etched the still-young-and-not-so-young face. His brown, doe eyes still gleamed bright. It had been a hard transition for him, coming back to the "civilized" world with towels and running water and food that wasn't beans (he still couldn't stand the sight of even one measly black bean). He'd sunk deep inside himself, despite all his parents' and friends' pleas. It was selfish, he knew—and incredibly strange—because as he lie in the cool, green grass of the park he'd played in as a child, watching screaming children he didn't know and probably should know leap into the community pool, watching mothers fret and gossip about completely inane things, watching fathers and other men smile and puff their chests out as if they hadn't a care in the world…he found himself missing and yearning to be back out _there_. Although _there_ involved screaming bullets and _pain_, Babe wanted it back. The near proximity to death made him feel _alive_. Knowing that the blue-black eyes were on him once again, Babe chuckled and glanced down at his hands. Around the wrists were white strands, criss-crossing just above his blue veins, showing prominently through his pale skin. The scars were old, and the memory dulled, but still there in the back of his mind.

"You saved my life, Gene, you know that right?" Babe croaked finally. "And I don't just mean out there on the line. I mean here too. Everywhere I guess."

And it was true. Gene was the reason Babe didn't just slice so hard one day that he'd never wake up. Gene was the one who could understand. Babe remembered that day well.

-b.o.b-

_Babe sat on the tiled floor of his parents' bathroom, head tipped back against the clawed, porcelain bathtub that his mother took such pride in. His eyes were clamped shut—not tightly, but comfortably. The razor lay in his lap, a thin line of red staining the edge. His wrists lay on his lap, blood dripping from the miserable, beautiful cuts on each, blotching his mother's white towels. In his mind, his warrior self was lying against a muddy wall, with ammunition flying past his intense face, clutching his wrist that still held a piece of burning iron, fired from a Kraut gun._

"_MEDIC!" The warrior cried, "DOC!" The pain grew, but was not so crippling that he could not raise his machine gun and cut down a line of advancing Germans. "GENE! WHERE ARE YOU?" Babe frantically searched side-to-side, but was alone. Black spots danced across his vision. But he was used to this. Gene never came. Nobody ever came because this was his own nightmare. His own miserable construct and he KNEW it. He wasn't crazy. Just miserable. With one final cry of defiance, he shot down the last German and sank into familiar blackness._

_When he came to, Babe expected to feel the cold tile still beneath him. But he didn't. He felt warmth and comfort. _Crap, _he thought. _I put myself in the fucking hospital._ Opening his eyes, expecting to see white walls and his mother's tearstained face in a chair beside his bed, he looked up and saw his own ceiling hovering above him. A wave of relief washed over him. He raised his hands and rubbed at his crusted eyes. Fabric caught against his chin as his wrists brushed against his cheeks. Pulling his hands away in bemusement, he saw strips of gauze wrapped around his injuries in a familiar fashion._

"_Your mother called me."_

_Babe started as a deep voice intoned from the back corner of the room. He peered into the gloom of night, but his eyes failed him._

"_You ain't gonna see me Babe. Not til I want you to."_

"_Doc?" Babe questioned softly, hopefully, and tragically all at the same time._

"_It's me Babe."_

_Babe smiled brightly. "Goddamn! What are you doin' here Gene?"_

"_Your mother called."_

"_Yeah, I know you already—"_

"_DO you know Babe? Do you really?" The venom in his best friend's voice wiped the tentative smile off Babe's face in an instant. "Do you know what you have been doing to that poor woman? Do you know that she called me in tears after she found you in that goddamn bathroom half-dead?"_

"_How did she—"_

"_She called fucking Winters. Goddamn man still keeps tabs on us. On ALL of us. Gave your ma my number. But that doesn't matter." And Doc Roe seemed to materialize out of thin air, angrier than Babe had ever seen him. His small frame seemed to expand and swell in anger. And in pain. "The fuck are you doing Heffron?" He reached over and grabbed a bandaged wrist. " The fuck is this? This isn't the man I knew out there on the line." Babe's eyes dropped. "This isn't the man who condemned me in Bastogne for the same goddamn thing."_

"_It isn't the same!" Babe cried, still a fighter as he always was once he got mad. "You _TRIED_ to kill yourself! I just—I just…"_

"_You were just what? I'm listening Babe." Babe lowered his eyes, cheeks smattered with red in embarrassment and anger. Then his face went white. He raised his eyes, looking at the man who held the world on his shoulders and carried it as if it were a precious egg that he had to protect._

"_I just can't handle this anymore Gene." Roe sank into a wooden rocking chair beside Babe's bed, eyes still intently locked upon Babe. "Nobody around here gets it! They don't understand what we've seen and done! They don't fucking get how lucky they are to be fucking alive! And fucking whole! Maybe I'm not like Joe or Bill, but I'm not whole either. I have something missing Gene. And I can't find it. I wish I had just died out there Doc. Died with the rest of our buddies, you know? I walk down the street and look at the young boys playing soldier and I think about how many German kids just like that that I killed. I'm a fucking murderer Gene. The sickest part? At the time, I _LIKED _it. I made a fucking game out of it. How can I ever come back here, to the green and the clean, when I'm a murderer? I'm not a hero like you or Winters. You did your jobs without excess killing. I killed for the sake of killing. I'm a murderer Gene. A murderer in heroes' company."_

"_You killed to stay alive Babe," Doc said quietly after a moment's pause and reached over and placed the old, wooden angel figurine on the nightstand. "And you're right. None of them get it. Nobody but the ones who have been there. You still got me right? And Dick. And Bill up the street. And Joe and Perco and Lip and Harry and everyone. You know that right? Look. You may not feel like a hero, Babe. But you are. You saved my life a thousand times over in Bastogne. And probably a thousand more after. You are a hero."_

-b.o.b—

"You've always been my hero, you know that right Gene? Shit, I remember the day you first killed someone. Do you? You did it to save me."

-b.o.b-

_Kneeling in the dirt outside of Foy, ready to charge and end the agony of Bastogne, Babe glanced out of the corner of his eye at Lt. Dike and shook his head. _He's gonna get all of us fucking killed,_ he thought grimly. Tightening his fist around the barrel of his gun, he rose from a kneeling position into a crouch, ready to spring. As the officers continued to strategize, Babe chanced one final look down the line of men. He spied Doc at the very edge, ready to spring as well. Not an ounce of fear crossed the man's face, just intent concentration. Babe never prayed. He never saw the need to. Whatever happened happened and there was no use crying over it. But even as he thought this once more, he found himself praying, begging God to let Doc Roe live. And they were moving. They were running. They were stopping. They were dying. For the first time in a long time, cold terror washed over Babe's body. Dike created chaos with his incompetence. He created blind fear. And then, suddenly, he wasn't there anymore. It was Spiers, who, with a quiet bark of an order, saved their lives. He made them move. He made them fight._

_As bullets screamed around the men, they pushed on, spurred on by Spiers' bravery. It was catching. Babe found himself leaping and dodging and shooting as he did before. His heart pounded in his ears as the adrenaline rush kicked in with a bang. His mind went blank; nothing seemed to connect, not even when the kid to his right went down in a crumpled heap. He pushed on when the faceless soldier to his left cried out sharply before falling dead on his face. Babe yelled hoarsely and moved forward alone. He rounded a corner, hoping for shelter. A bullet pinged the wall just beside his face. Pieces of sharp rock and plaster stung his neck and face as he skidded to a stop. He inhaled sharply and locked his eyes on the young German, hands trembling, pointing a gun at Babe's chest._

"_Shit!" Babe cried and fumbled for the rifle that had slipped from his nerveless fingers. He couldn't find the trigger._

_The Kraut yelled harshly in German and his hands steadied. Babe froze. For the first time in the entire goddamn war, Babe froze. The adrenaline pumping throughout his system made the world slow and the sound stop. He watched as the German rifle leveled with his heart and the boy's face hardened into a mask of hate. He saw explosions in the distance and the men thundering around the town, unaware of Babe's impending death. Babe almost closed his eyes, but didn't. He wanted to die with his eyes open. The shot rang out and the body crumpled to the ground._

_Gene stood in the empty space that the German once stood in, rifle raised. Babe stood numbly, hands at his side, still aimlessly groping at the gun beside his thigh. Gene's eyes were locked onto the dead body that lay on the ground and then he slowly, painfully raised them to stare into Babe's eyes in devastation. Babe watched as Doc Roe dropped the gun to his side and stared at his shaking hands in front of him. He looked up again at Babe and Babe could quite honestly say that he had never seen someone look that lost until he looked into the blue-black eyes of the Cajun medic._

_A couple of days after, once the men were seated in the beautiful church, listening to the choir sing, Babe sat down behind Eugene. The medic sat in the front pew, eyes closed, lips moving, mouthing the words to the song. Babe leaned forward; looking at the medic's closed face._

"_What are they saying?"_

"_Plaisir d'Amour," Gene intoned deeply, leaning back so he could see Babe. "'The Pleasure of Love'. It's about this girl who promises to stay the same forever. To love forever. And she changes." His eyes were locked forward. "L'eau coule encore. Elle a changé pourtant."_

"_What?"_

"_The water still runs but she has changed." He paused. "Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie."_ _Gene shifted in his seat. He looked down and whispered: "The pain lasts a lifetime." Babe sighed and allowed the silence to cover them both._

"_It does," he said finally. Gene looked up at him. "You'll never forget the first man you killed." Gene looked away. "But you saved my life Gene. You haven't changed." And Eugene sighed deeply and accepted the cigarette that Babe held out._

-b.o.b-

Silence still met Babe. He looked long and hard at Gene before continuing.

"You know, I've only seen you cry twice Gene. I must have seen all the others break down a million times over that year of hell. But you? The entire time I've known you, I've only seen you cry twice. The first time was after Jackson died and I'm not sure that counted. Do you remember that? Of course you do. You remember everyone in that entire war don't you? Well, the night he died, you looked at me—only me. And I didn't know what to do."

-b.o.b-

_Babe tentatively approached the medics' building a couple houses down. Standing against the brick archway as Eugene Jackson died under Doc Roe's hands, Babe had been blind. Blind with rage, pain, and fear. Rage because Jackson shouldn't have even fucking _been_ there in the first place. None of them should have been. The patrol was a stupid fucking idea. Pain because Jackson had been one of them. He was so young—he had his entire damn life ahead of him and it was just gone. And fear because he'd seen Gene's face. Gene had looked at _him. _Just him. Ever since Babe had finally kicked it through the doctor's thick skull that they were_ friends_ and friends _helped _each other, Gene slowly became more trusting and more receptive to Babe's help and counsel. It was almost like talking to a fucking kicked puppy. But once Doc started to trust, Babe didn't quite know what to do. He never was a "feelings" type of guy. Sometimes that's what Doc needed. Like now._

_As he approached the crumbling plaster of the medics' building, he heard the unmistakable sound of breaking glass and splintering of wood. Babe dashed in, rifle raised, ready to kill. He stopped instantly. Gene stood in the back of the room, pummeling his bare fists into an exposed beam that lay across the windowpane. French streamed from his mouth in spasms. He kicked at empty crates beside his feet and smashed his bloody knuckles through the window. Babe stood dumbfounded at this tantrum; this rare display of emotion._

"_Doc—" He started._

"_WHAT?" Eugene spat, whirling around. "You got something to say Heffron, huh?"_

"_I just—"_

"_You just WHAT?"_

"_Jesus Doc, I—"_

"_Fuck this. I don't even wanna hear this shit." Doc spun back around and viciously smashed his fist through the plaster. "I don't wanna—" He was cut off as Babe grabbed him by his shoulder, spun him around, and punched him squarely in the nose._

"_You gonna listen to me now?" Babe panted, flushed bright red. "Cause I—"_

_Eugene's small body pummeled into his side in a football tackle, sending them both to the ground. Babe rolled and kicked Gene off him. Both men rose and circled around each other._

"_I don't wanna hurt you Gene," Babe warned. The only response he got was a punch to the ribs. The two scuffled for a bit longer until Babe tired of the nonsense. Eventually, he ended up sitting on top of Eugene's back as the medic lay on his stomach, face pressed into the wood. Gene struggled in vain for a couple more seconds until he realized that it was over. The fight drained from his limbs. "Can I get off your scrawny ass or are you gonna hit me again?" Gene nodded into the floor. Babe eyed Gene warily as he wiped the blood from his nose. He stayed lying face down on the hardwood, motionless. Babe sighed and gently lifted the man into a sitting position. Babe looked on as a single tear ran down the doctor's face._

"_He was just a kid, Ed."_

"_I know."_

"_He didn't want to die."_

"_I know."_

"_I couldn't save him. He was too far gone."_

"_I know. He was."_

"_I'm sorry for hitting you."_

"_It's okay."_

"_And for punching the walls."_

"_Don't say sorry to me, say sorry to the walls."_

"_Wise-ass."_

"_I know."_

"_Can I say sorry to Jackson?"_

"_You think he'll hear you?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_Well hurry up. I'm starving."_

"_Je suis désolé Eugene. Je suis désolé pour vous laisser mourir."_

"_You done?"_

"_Yep."_

"_Okay, let's go."_

"_Okay."_

-b.o.b-

"But that was nothing compared to the second time I saw you cry. I thought you'd never stop. But somehow, I didn't want you to."

-b.o.b-

_Gene skidded around the corner frantically, sneakers sliding on the fresh wax buffed into the yellow-white linoleum. He flew past the white-washed walls smattered with colorful posters preaching the importance of soap, vaccines, and regular checkups. Nurses watched disapprovingly, tearful adults looked on in perceived sympathy, and children giggled as the small man stumbled momentarily on a discarded rubber ducky left in the middle of the hallway. Skirting past an old couple helping one another down the halls, Gene barreled on, willing himself to move faster. Had it been seven years ago, the onlookers would have been watching Doc Roe as he ran to the aid of a man blasted to pieces by mortar rounds and crying for his mother. _

_As he ran past countless rooms and people, he knocked into a metal tray that was precariously perched on the counter beside him. He barely suppressed a yelp that rose behind his lips and stuck in his throat as the scissors and scalpels crashed to the floor, befuddling his mind, instantly transforming the loud noise into tree bursts and thundering bombs. Eugene watched, horrified, as the white walls and floors shifted, transforming before his eyes into the snowy, explosive forest of Bastogne in the Ardennes. He shook his head violently, watching as soldiers and content patients all collectively roamed the crater-ridden field. Still careening forward, Eugene watched as artillery rounds of medical-grade scissors and rubber ducks rent the air. His breathing increased rapidly, hyperventilating._

"_It's not real," he whispered fervently to himself. "It's not real. It's over. It's over. C'est fini. It's over. Please God, make it stop." This most recent episode ended abruptly as he ran face first into an opening door. His forehead smacked mightily into the wood. He landed heavily on his back and lay there, panting, for a good ten seconds before a very familiar voice sounded just above his head._

"_Jesus Christ Gene! The fuck you doin' on the ground?" Babe hauled Eugene to his feet, lifting him bodily off the ground._

"_Put me down," Gene commanded crossly, batting at Babe's hands and scowling at the irritating smirk that was ever present on Babe's face. He straightened his jacked and smoothed back his perpetually messy jet black hair. "Now I could get mad at you for my forehead," Babe sheepishly chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "But I won't, because I didn't come all the way to New York for you."_

"_Geez Gene. You wound me."_

"_How's Sarah? Is she alright?" Babe chuckled._

"_Yeah, she's fine. She's tough."_

"_Had to be to marry you, eh?" Gene joked, eyes twinkling._

"_Eh, shaddup," Babe said, nudging the small man. Then his face broke out into a wide smile. "Do you want to see her?" Gene mimicked Babe's Cheshire cat smile._

"_It's a girl?"_

"_Yeah Gene. She's beautiful. I mean drop dead gorgeous. I don't know what Imma do once she grows up. She has Sarah's face—"_

"_Thank God."_

"_Shut up. And my hair. And she's so goddamn tiny Gene." Fear suddenly punctuated Babe's voice. "What the fuck am I doing Gene? I'm no father. I—I… I'm not ready for this! Sarah is, but I just…what if I fail Gene? What if I lose my job or what if she hates me?" His eyes grew wide and wild and he grabbed Eugene's sleeve. "She can't hate me Gene."_

"_Whoa, whoa Ed," Gene chuckled, placating the redhead with upturned palms. "She's not even a week old and you're already preparing for the teenage years." Babe scowled and folded his arms across his chest. "Look. You're gonna be a great father. Everyone knows it. Just watch your goddamn mouth, check that temper of yours, and for the love of God, you'll be just fine." Babe raised his head._

"_You think so?"_

"_Of course." Babe's body visibly relaxed. Gene always had a calming effect on him._

"_Thanks Gene," Gene smiled and nodded silently. "So," Babe began slowly. "Wanna see her?"_

"_Yes." Eugene blurted before the words were halfway out of Babe's mouth. Babe laughed and clapped Roe on his shoulder before leading him into the hospital room. Sarah lay on the bed, peacefully asleep, her blond hair pulled to the side, splayed on the pillow._

"_Wait here," Babe said. "I'll go get her from the nursery." Gene nodded and pulled up a chair beside Sarah's bedside. He bent down and gave her his customary peck of the cheek. Babe left, shutting the door silently._

"_He seems happy Little Sister," Gene said after a beat, using his fond pet name for the younger woman. "Thanks for taking care of him." Gene leaned back into the silence, allowing the memories to float before his eyes for the first time in a while. He sighed deeply and watched peacefully for once as the faces of the dead began their familiar black parade. Then suddenly, the room lightened. Gene's breath caught in his chest as Babe slowly opened the door, a yellow bundle held securely in the crook of his left elbow. He rose slowly and seemed to float over to where the new father stood._

"_Gene, this is Evangeline. Evangeline Reneé Heffron." Eugene's head snapped up at the sound of the dead woman's name. Babe eyes held a soft quality that had never been there before. He looked back down at the bundle, a soft mist forming over his eyes._

"_Evangeline," he whispered so softly._

"_Yeah," Babe started excitedly. "Sarah and I have it all figured out. If she's a mama's girl we'll call her Eva and if she's a daddy's girl, we'll call her Vangie. And if shes…" Babe's voice dulled and trailed off as Eugene caught sight of a small wisp of red hair peeking out from the edge of the soft blanket._

"_Gene. GENE." Eugene started and looked up at Babe. "Wanna hold her?" Eugene's eyes widened. He opened his mouth a few times without actually speaking. Quite frankly, he looked like a beached fish. He gulped._

"_C-can I?" In response, Babe gently slid Evangeline into Eugene's arms. At first, Eugene could barely see the little girl through the veil of tears. "Bonjour, Ma Belle," Eugene whispered, gently stroking the chubby, rosy cheek with the backside of two fingers. Babe perched himself on the corner of Sarah's bed as Eugene sank into the wooden rocking chair, eyes riveted on the small yellow bundle. He watched, enchanted, as the sleeping baby yawned and shifted closer to his chest. Her tiny hands pushed out of the fleece wrap, reached out, and grasped the edge of his jacket with a firm grasp for one so small. With that move, the dam burst. Tears flowed freely as he clutched her tightly to him, whispering soothing words and promises in a mixture of English and French. As he clung onto the baby girl, everything suddenly became worth it. All those dead faces, missing limbs, and broken minds were justified in that one moment as Gene watched this tiny baby. She'd never have to grow up in a warzone. She'd live peacefully—she was too beautiful to deserve any less. Gene and all the other faces crowding his mind let go in that moment. A weight lifted off his chest as he forgave himself. He found himself smiling—truly smiling for the first time since he first left Louisiana for Toccoa._

"_I wanted to ask you something Gene." Roe nodded through his tears._

"_Will you be her godfather? You were the first person Sarah and I thought of. If you don't wanna, that's okay. You're just the best guy I know and I want my daughter to be raised by the best if something happens to me and I—" Babe was cut off as Eugene pulled him into a brotherly embrace, Evangeline cocooned in a cavity created by the bodies of her father and godfather. "I'll take that as a yes," Babe said, voice muffled. Eugene chuckled and pulled back._

"_Of course I will. It's funny though. Just your luck that she was born on D-day."_

-b.o.b-

Leaning back, the 75 year old veteran looked hard at the freshly turned dirt and newly polished headstone, glistening in the Louisianan sun.

_Eugene Gilbert Roe_

_October 17, 1921 - December __  
><em>_30, 1998_

"_From this day to the ending of the world, We in it shall be remembered"_

Babe sighed heavily as he looked at one of his best friends in the world. He looked on at his brother. He looked on at his hero and said haltingly through tears as thick as molasses:

"Lord, grant that shall never seek to be consoled as to console. To be understood as to understand. And to be loved…as to love with all my heart," Babe bent down slowly, with the help of his wooden cane. He grasped a handful of the fresh dirt in his hand and scooped out a small cavity. With a shaking hand covered in liver spots and scars, he drew a small, handcarved wooden angel out of his coat pocket and placed it gently in the tiny hole. He covered the angel and allowed a tear to slip from the corner of his eye and fall onto the grave. "With all my heart Gene."

"Dad." A redheaded woman stood a few yards away, face puffy and tearstained. "Let's go." And Gene and Vangie walked away from the graveyard, with heavy hearts and a guardian angel between them with invisible black-blue eyes.

**Oh my god it's finally done! Sorry for the late update. I just wanted to thank all of you who kept on reading even when it got REALLY sappy, so THANK YOUUUUUUUU! You are all the bestest readers anyone could ask for. If you could review, one last time, that would be fantastic. Again, THANK YOU!**

**-Robin1231**


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